Broken Little Puppets
by NefarioussNess
Summary: Lydia had been a fighter; Peter enjoyed listening to her demands to spare the boy. When he'd slashed open Stiles' wrists lengthwise those demands turned into sobbing pleas.


They were adorable.

So bright, witty, honest, beautiful, _fragile_. The two of them were a unique little song to his ears, but every song had to come to an end…

Their chorus consisted of their choking screams.

Peter carefully wiped the blood off his mouth with the back of his hand. It gleamed a dark red in the dimming light, and smelled like sweet copper.

It wasn't his, of course, but a collaboration of _theirs_.

He peered down at the dusty and charred floorboards, where their blood was slowing edging its way across. Two bodies lay crumpled on the ground, their eyes wide and glassy; death was causing a film of lifelessness to grow over them.

Lydia had been a fighter; Peter enjoyed listening to her demands to spare the boy. When he'd slashed open Stiles' wrists lengthwise those demands turned into sobbing pleas.

* * *

_"Lydia Martin always gets what she wants," Peter said coldly, pushing Stiles to the floor. Thick rivulets of blood streamed down his arms, and Peter could hear his heartbeat fading fast. And yet he thought it was wise to struggle and attempt to fight off a born werewolf._

_But Peter merely straddled him, holding him down while he fixed his gaze on Lydia. "But since when did she ever care for Stiles Stilinski?"_

_Stiles' struggling drew weaker; his upper body was drenched in his own blood. Peter smiled cruelly, and flashed his fangs before lowering his mouth down to the boy's throat._

_"STOP!" Lydia screamed. Her lower lip was trembling violently; angry tears cascading down from her eyes. Her dress—a lovely shade of rose—was torn across the stomach, revealing gouging claw marks underneath. Peter had gone easy on her; the congealing wounds were evidence of that. _

_But Stiles had mouthed off—how _precious_ of him—and tried to get in the way. He knew what he was getting himself into when he gotten in between a wolf and its prey._

_"Too late," Peter simply told her. "He'll be dead in a matter of minutes." He nosed Stiles' chin upward, so that the boy was able to stare at Lydia for one final time. _

_Peter smiled cruelly at Stiles. "You shouldn't have rejected my offer the first time."_

_Stiles tried to wrangle out of Peter's grip. "Lydia," he begged softly, "please, get out. Just go, alright?"_

_"And how far will she get?" Peter purred into Stiles' ear. "She'll just open up those wounds and bleed all over the place. Besides, I know her scent. I'll be able to catch up to her in seconds."_

_"Then I give her those few seconds," Stiles sneered, as he attempted to knee the werewolf in the stomach._

_Peter gripped the boy's knee, snarling impatiently as he snapped it to one side. Stiles screamed, just as Lydia ducked tearfully out of the room._

_Stiles screamed, just as Peter ripped out his throat with his teeth._

_Blood sprayed into Peter's mouth, overwhelming his senses. He continued to shred away at the soft flesh, tearing out the underlying veins and hint of muscle. Soon enough, the wooden floorboards were soaked in the crimson concoction._

_Peter stood up, dragging Stiles' lifeless corpse to its feet. Stiles' eyes were wide and unseeing. A steady _drip drip_ of blood could be heard as more of it poured from the boy's throat and mouth._

_"Lydia," Peter called out, clutching Stiles' bicep in one powerful hand. He allowed the rest of the body to go limp as he began to drag it behind him. "Lydia darling, come out. I know you're still in here, in my house."_

_He carefully walked up the staircase still dragging Stiles. _Thump-thump-thump_. When they had reached the top Peter casually threw Stiles in front of him, the corpse landing heavily in front of his feet._

_"I can hear your whimpers," Peter sighed. He could also smell the salt from her tears, but that knowledge was to be a private enjoyment for him. "Did he mean that much to you, to deserve your coveted tears? I always knew that it was the other way around. Did you know that he was willing to die when I bit you? He didn't put a lot of value upon himself. But I granted his wish: he would never have to live in a world without Lydia Martin."_

_Something came flying his way. Peter ducked just in time as a Molotov cocktail zoomed past his head, and exploding into the hallway behind him. Flames began to greedily lick up the remaining carpet. Peter rolled his eyes, and strode over to it, smothering the small fire with a stamp of his leather shoes._

_"Clever," he said calmly, "you were always so clever, and beautiful."_

* * *

He shook his head and smiled at the positioning of the bodies. He'd thrown Stiles' body back down the stairs, just to make Lydia suffer. The boy was spread-eagled, his hand seemingly reaching for Lydia's.

The girl, funnily enough, was the one who was reaching for _him_. Her pale white hand had scraped along the floorboards, struggling to make contact with Stiles' cold dead one. In her final breath—half of her organs ripped out of her; giant slashes down her legs—her fingertips had managed to brush against Stiles' cold, dead ones.

And now she lay on her stomach, her spilling intestines cushioned underneath her.

Ah, but her eyes! How fiery they still were, even in death! In the end she had decided to glare at Peter, as if insulted to mauled by him once again.

Peter would miss that. Alas, their parts have been played.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his phone. His long, graceful fingers ghosted across a trio of numbers before he placed the phone against his ear.

"Hello?" he said to the operator. His voice was calm and collected, almost bored-sounding. "Yes, I would like to report a murder. It looks like an animal attack. I know the address, I can tell you now…"

Peter could already imagine the future scenario. This would make the news; a pair of teenagers being brutally killed would be devastating. Especially when one of the victims happened to have a parent on the force…

But hunters would be alerted, Peter knew this. And now, his brooding nephew would have to deal with the consequences.

The murders did occur on _his_ property, after all. First Laura, and now these two interesting specimen. How well would Derek deal with that?

Peter knelt down next to Stiles and Lydia. He drew his knuckles down the side of Stiles' face, feeling the tacky blood on his skin. Peter leaned over the boy's corpse, and pressed his lips to Stiles' cold forehead. He caressed Lydia's hair, trailing his fingers through the bloodied curls. He pulled some of them back, and kissed her white throat.

By the time the authorities had arrived, Peter was long gone.


End file.
